


A Pint or Two

by HPNS



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPNS/pseuds/HPNS
Summary: After a far too long life, with his enemies beaten and his friends gone, the hero retreats away, doing what he did best - helping those in need. And waiting. Always waiting. One-shot. A tale from a children's book of stories.





	A Pint or Two

**Author's Note:**

> Just something random I wanted to publish. One of the first things I've written.

Just something random I wanted to publish. One of the first things I've written.

A Pint Or Two

It was a chilly summer night down in the alley, and the streets were empty. The old, dusty shops were veiled in the darkness and protective charms. They were empty and lifeless, with an augur of mystery around them.

However, the small lodge at the end of the alley, a tavern that stood there for as long as locals could remember, still showed the signs of life; the linseed oil, charmed to last forever, provided a faint, reddish light that illuminated the sign over its entrance.

A Pint Or Two, it said.

People knew it was supposed to be some kind of a joke, a product of an old anecdote the owner lived through many years ago, but the time has passed and the truth has never been yielded. Thus, the curiosities died, and the name remained a riddle, known only to a barman and his long-lost friend.

It was a shady kind of place, with strange folk as regulars; wizards under the hoods with packages of all sizes and unknown origins, old, nasty-looking hags with their fingers deep into the raw liver, scarred, sad-looking men drowning in the strong, alcoholic drinks and many others. Unwanted, non-privileged, different, rascals, they were all welcomed by the old barman, if only they followed the rules, and they were fairly simple:

No fighting.

No politics.

No name-calling.

No free drinks.

In the past, some of them, those most unhinged, tried their luck with the old barman but to no avail. They were abruptly reminded of his quick wandwork and were thrown out from his humble property, with a ban of entrance for a year, and one year more for every next breach of his rules.

The last such breach happened over a decade ago, and ever since, the locals and regulars enjoyed the peace, pints, and each other's company.

The bell over the door rang, and they all, as one, turned their heads towards it to see a newcomer; it was a tall, thin figure, wearing a long black cloak, and a hood that covered the face. With a long, steady step, it crossed the distance between the door and the bar, and removed the hood, only to reveal a beardless, blond-haired head of a man with intense blue eyes, and a boyish smile. There was no telling how old the new chap was; he could be either twenty or eighty.

The barman's old face lit and showed his every wrinkle. His lips spread in a wide grin, revealing more than one hole in his denture.

"Come on in and settle down, don't be a stranger," he said, and ran around the bar, the act that lasted far too long, but the stranger didn't seem to mind and patiently waited.

The barman pulled one of the dusty, wooden bar stools and wiped it quickly with his sleeve.

"Sit down, my friend, rest."

"Many thanks," the stranger said and took the offered seat. "But I'm afraid it is a part of my curse. Nowhere to be welcomed, everywhere to be a stranger."

"Nonsense." The barman waved his hand and looked as if in a great rush while he sought a mug. "Everyone Is welcomed here."

The duo seemed unaware of anyone else, and their eyes never left one another, but many other pairs rested on them, some narrowed, and some widened.

"And again." The stranger smiled, but it didn't help the weary, sad looks he had about himself. "You have my thanks for it."

Barman finally detected the mug he was looking for, reached the self-pouring, enchanted machine, and side-glanced at the stranger, his mouth twitching.

"So what's it going to be tonight? A pint or two?"

"Just one tonight, I'm afraid," the stranger said, and his face softened. "Lots to do, you know. There's always more to do." The last part was a mere whisper, told to no one specifically, but nonetheless, they've all heard it.

The barman lost some of the joy from his face. He poured the golden, thick liquid into the mug, and pushed it on the bar, in front of the stranger.

"So what brings you to these Merlin-forsaken ends," the barman said, already wiping the wet path that the mug left behind with a piece of old cloth. "Couldn't resist a cold pint, eh?"

"Something like that." The stranger chuckled and downed a half of his beverage in a single gulp. A satisfied noise left his throat. "Met a three of your kind, actually. They were about to pass the river, up by the Otley, a quick, nasty bit of water."

"Oh?" the barman said delicately.

"Tried to trick me too, the three of them did," the stranger said and shook his head. "So I tried to trick them instead."

"I didn't know such a thing was possible," the barman said.

"One has to recognize bravery." The stranger shrugged. "It is within my power to offer gifts and rewards."

"But why would you do so?"

The stranger took another gulp and stopped when there was but an ounce left. He cowered a bit, retreated into himself, and raised his eyes towards the barman, but only for a second.

The moment of the silence stretched for a long time.

"Pour me another one," he said softly. "Will you?"

The barman's face lit once again, and he jumped to the task with gusto. "I knew you would cave!" He grinned victoriously. "I knew it!"

"Just this one time," the stranger said, but the barman didn't pay him any attention and presented him another mug, full and cold.

"Anyway, the trio?"

"Right," the stranger said with a small, knowing smile. "I did so because I know your kind better than anyone. I recognized their bravery for what it was."

"If you say so," the barman said. "But I'd say that bravery is bravery."

The stranger raised his mug and toasted the barman. "And you would be right," he said. "but its forms differ greatly. The first of them had a power-hungry bravery about him, born out of need to prove his worth to the others, born out of a high opinion about himself."

"What did you give him?" the barman asked curiously.

"A tool of great power. One that fits his person the best. It's up to him to use it for either good or bad, for it's not in my nature to occupy myself with such notions. You see, what matters the most is our choices, not what was given to us."

"May Merlin watch his step," the barmen said, and slightly lowered his head.

"May magic guide him just," the stranger dutifully replied. "Shall I go on?"

"Please."

"The second one, as brave as he was, was just as arrogant, and it showed. Because of the gifts magic bestowed upon him, he thought there were no limits to what he can achieve so I gave him the tool of truth. Some may find it terrifying, but in reality, it is liberating, and the notion of finality should give us closure. The sheer knowledge that the beyond exists..."

The barman laughed. "I love it when you speak like that, but you should know by now that I can't follow all your quirks."

"Sorry." The stranger smiled, his cheeks slightly red. "I don't get a chance to talk freely often."

"I know, my friend. I know," the barmen said and was about to reach the stranger with his arm, but seemed to think better of it in a mid-way, and pulled it back.

"Anyhow, I gave him the tool that shall show him that nothing lasts forever, no matter what magic is at his disposal," he said. "Not even I."

"And the third one?" the barmen asked quietly.

"His bravery is no more and no less, but his humbleness." The stranger took a pause, his mind somewhere else for a short moment. "It's a power far greater than anything else, you know. To know yourself, your fears, and your destiny. It takes great courage to look in the mirror, and make peace with everything you see there. It was only appropriate to give him a tool of peace. One that will be a safe haven, and a legacy. It will allow him to cherish small things in life, and when the time comes, we will meet in peace, like old friends, and we'll walk together into great beyond, as was meant to be."

Stranger's eyes flicked towards his mug, where just a bit of liquid rolled around, creating small golden waves with a white topping.

"I can pour you another one, you know," the barmen said and his eyes narrowed when he noticed the state of his friend's drink. "It wouldn't kill you."

"No," the stranger said silently. "There are rules, and even now, I'm breaking them. Because of that, I'll be cursed, again and again, time after time. I'll be sent further and further until I am unable to come back. I will join the many that suffered the same fate and float around till the end of all existence, taking the joy and happiness out of those still here. It is my fate, and I accept it."

"And all of it for a pint?" The barman chuckled and the stranger joined him, creating some sort of a melody. It was not a happy one.

"Aye," the stranger said finally, and looked his friend in the eyes. "For a pint."

But the old barman was around for quite a while, and he knew the stranger better than anyone. His eyes first widened, his mouth creating a perfect shape of the letter O, but only for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed, and he smiled, both happy and sad.

"You're here on business, right?" he said, but there was no accusation in his voice, only acceptance.

"I'm afraid so." The stranger looked down, unable to meet the eyes of the barman. "It's meant to be this way."

"Right." The barman slowly nodded and looked over the bar, where the old, rare clock rested. His eyes betrayed no signs of surprise when he noticed a single golden hand pointing at where number twelve would be on a normal clock.

His guests often wondered about the clock and where it came from. They often argued about nine roots of broken hands and bet on to whom they belonged, but no one was brave enough to ask.

The stranger sighed and downed the rest of his drink. "I'm sorry," he said genuinely, stood up, and offered his hand.

Barman hesitated for a second. "Are they waiting for me?"

"All of them," the stranger said reassuringly.

Barman stood frozen in his spot, but then he cracked a laugh and hurried to take the hand.

"Oh, my friend, I've been waiting for you for too long," he said.

The difference between their heights was comical, and the old man looked up with a small, knowing smile, his green eyes glowing in mischief. The stranger's eyes were widened as he looked down, but then he too smiled, and together, they made their way towards the exit.

"Why, do you remember back in…" the barmen started, but the locals would never find out what, because at that moment, the bell rang once again, and they were gone, and with them, the chilly night; once again, the summer showed its true colors, and the alley was greeted with a pleasant, light breeze.

The regulars remained silent for a long time, barely trusting their eyes about what they have just witnessed, but soon, they returned to their usual business. They drank, enjoyed the peace and each other's company.

Time passed, and the locals and regulars forgot about the old barman and his blue-haired friend with a boyish smile. They too left, and the empty spots behind them were filled with new folk of all sorts. Later, the tavern burned down in some sort of freakish accident, and nothing was left behind. The people found new places to be welcomed in, with different names and new barmen.

But even today, something is remembered: Deep into the chilly night, when the streets are empty and the shops are closed, if the weary stranger stumbles upon your abode, do not hesitate, do not chase him away, but smile, welcome him, and offer him a pint or two.


End file.
